December 22, 2008

Hark, hark I hear Lang Will’s clear voice sound through the Kielder glen
Where the Raven flaps her glossy wings and the fell fox has his den.
There the shepherds they are gathering up wi many a guid yauld crew
An wiry terrier game and keen and foxhounds fleet and true.

Away and away oer hill and dale and up by yonder stell
The music of the gallant pack resounds oer moor and dell.
See yon herd callant waves his plaid, list yon loud tally–ho
The fox is up and breaks away oer the edge of Hawkhope flowe.

Hark forrard hark, ye gallant hounds, hark onward hark away
He kens the hauds on Tosson Hills he kens the holes at Rae
There’s no a den round the Kailstane but he kens weel I trow
And a’ the holes at Larriston he kens them thro and thro.

There’s Wannys Crags and Sewingshields and Christenbury too
And if he win to Hareshaw Linn you may then bid him adieu.
The Keyhaugh and the Cloven crags the Cove and Darna ha’
Chattlehope spout and the Wily holes old Foxy kens them a.

Away, away oer band and brae they drive the wily game
Where Mowdy, Ruby, Royal still unhaud their glorious fame.
And see the liesh yald shepherd lads how Monkside heights they climb
They’re the pride of a’ the Borders wide for wind and wiry limbs.

Through yon wild glen they view him now he’s right for the Yearning Linn
By cairn and crag oer moss and hagg sae glorious is the din
Weel done hurrah, they’ve run him doon! yons Mowdy twirls him now
The hunt is done the brush is won, I hear the death Hal-loo.

Here’s to Will of Emmethaugh, he is a sportsman true
Here’s to Robbie o’ Bakethin and Rob o Kielder too.
At the Hope, Bewshaugh and Kersie Cleugh, Skaup Riggend and the Law
In Tyne and Reed and Irthinghead, they’re gallant sportsment aa’.

Version collected by Clive Dalton from retired farmer Adam Robson who used to sing it regularly in the Black Bull at Wark.

David Armstrong of Bellingham says that the song was written by a James Armstrong of Plashetts in October 1875. The hunt was originally called the 'Kielder & Irthing Head Hounds' and were kenneled at Cairn Syke on the Cumbrian border

December 21, 2008

When I was a teenager in Redesdale, over sixty years ago now, the “Border Hunt” was the main means of controlling foxes, which were the scourge of the many sheep farms in the upper reaches of the valley. In the North Tyne, the “North Tyne Hunt” performed the same service.

In those far-off days, long before the hills were blanketed by rolling acres of Sitka Spruce and Japanese Larch, the hounds could range without hindrance to Carter Bar on the Scottish Border to the west, then to the Ridlees Burn (a tributary of the Coquet) in the north.

Then they could go east again as far as Otterburn and the Ottercops Fell and south to the Rooken Edge which marches with Tarset. Of course, if Foxy decided that it was in the interest of his safety to cross any of these imaginary boundaries, then that’s what he did – and the hounds followed.

The Heul CragOne of the principal meets of the year was on Boxing Day at the Huel Crag, north of Rochester, above the Sills Burn which runs through the village to meet the Rede. The Crag was a stronghold for the local foxes so that, prior to hunt day, men were sent to block up as many entrances to the dozens of bolt holes as they could, to deny access to any foxes that ran for home.

Men, young and old, farmers and farm hands, those on the dole and those on holiday would all turn out on this special day to follow the Master of Foxhounds (the MFH), the Huntsman and the Whipper-In, surrounded by the pack of eager, tail-swinging, long-legged, cream, brown and black foxhunds as they set of to be laid on to a likely scent.

Only these three “officials”, plus a handful of farmers or landed gentry, were on horseback. The remainder were on foot and keen to be in at the kill. Consequently, it was important to be able to anticipate the likely route the fox would take when he was raised on a bleak hillside or from his lair in a bracken bed or a birch grove by the burn.

Davey Rogerson of CottonshopeOne such local expert in “kenning” the best vantage points to watch the unfolding drama was Davey Rogerson from Cottonshope. Davey always seemed to ken in advance where Reynard would show up next so, naturally, all the foot followers anxious to share his expertise tracked him closely.

Davey was also a big droll character. Originating from the Scotch side he had a slow, dry wit and often had his audience enthralled with his stories. On one Boxing Day hunt, Davey and his followers were waiting patiently in the shelter of Horsley Wood, about a mile down the road from Rochester.

He was mounted, as usual, on his sturdy fell pony which, after the morning’s trapesin’ through bogs and rushes, was lathered in sweat and caked in mud. To ease his lang legs Davey had taen his feet oot ‘o the stirrups and let them hing doon, almost to the grund.

The pony fidgeted and hopped from leg to leg and occasionally kicked up with a back foot to scratch the dried mud on his belly. Eventually he succeeded in catching his hoof in one of the dangling stirrups, which started him limping and stumbling around in circles on three legs. At this point Davy looked down and remarked, “Beggar! If you’re comin’ up heor. Aa’m gettin’ aff!”

Yoo-oo, Yoo-oo!With the hounds only a few yards behind him, a fox would often make a bolt for the sanctuary of and stronghold at the Huel Crag. Men and lads, shouting, “Yoo-oo! Yoo-oo! and whistling and waving sticks, would try to head him off and give the hounds time to close the gap.

On one fateful day, an over-enthusiastic guardian of the crag, in his determination to keep foxy out, took a step too close to the crag edge and hurtled headlong over it. Luckily, he suffered no more than severe bruising and a dint in his pride, but was rewarded for weeks afterwards with free pints in the pub as he retold his adventure to an awestruck audience.

Reynard was far ower clivorAlthough the Hunt would claim great success when they returned, tired and triumphant each hunt day, the truth was that, on many outings, the foxes had proved to be far too clever or too wily to be caught out very often.

One favourite ploy was to lead the hounds over hill and dale and eventually slip through the fence into the newly planted areas of Redesdale Forest. Once inside they simply melted away, and the hounds were left floundering back and forth in the close-packed trees until the frustrated Whipper-In was able to gather them together again with furious blasts on his hunting horn.

Yet again, I’ve seen as many as eight foxes break from a bracken bed, each one heading off in a different direction taking one or two hounds with them. After a while the foxes would disappear, leaving the hounds wandering aimlessly across the moor with a puzzled expression on their faces.

I remember one day when a fox managed to go to earth near the Huel in a hole too narrow for the hounds to get through, but also too shallow to let the fox get completely out of reach. This was a case of sending for the man with the spade.

"Digger" John DixonJohn Dixon was the man for the job, hence his nickname of “Digger”. After a few sweat-producing minutes, Davy Rogerson was able to reach into the hole and bring the fox out at the end of his long arm. After a cursory glance at him he declared,” He hesna a teeth in his heed!” and threw him to the hounds.

Since the Forestry Commission acquired and then planted most of the big sheep farms at the head of the Coquet, the Rede and the North Tyne, hunting has been squeezed down to the lower valleys so the long, lung-bursting, leg-breaking chases across the fells have almost disappeared.

Land Rovers & hip flasksNowadays the followers are more likely to be in Land Rovers with high-powered binoculars and hip flasks. Today the hunts often start after 11am and trail homewards, especially on cold wet days as early as 2.30pm. It’s certainly not the same as the old dawn-to-dusk days of yesteryear; but it still stirs the blood to hear the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, the hounds giving tongue and the high ringing call of the huntsman’s horn.

December 20, 2008

This a famous and much-loved poem and song of Northumbrian shepherds and country folk at functions such as Border Shepherds' suppers and rural gatherings. It tells the story of the clostridial disease of sheep (mainly of young hoggs) called 'braxy', and what little could be done to prevent it in the days before vaccines.

The poem was composed by Billy Bell who was born in Riccarton in 1862, but spent most of his life in Byrness where he worked as a roadman for the upper Redesdale Road Board and then the County Council from about 1883 to 1933. He died in 1941.

Over his lifetime, he wrote more than 350 poems in lined exercise books. When his widow died these notebooks were rescued by a neighbour Mrs S. Rogerson.

The dosin 'o the hoggsThe back end again is wi’ us and the wund blaas cauld and chillAnd mighty hoar frosts whiten o’er each valley and each hill.The moorland herds are at it wi’ their usefu’ collie dogsBusy pairtin’ aa’ and sheddin’ for the dosin’ o’ the hoggs.

Auld Grumpy she’s been dieted on cows new milk and grassHer dung collected an’ aal stirred up intae a sickly mess.A glessfu’ doon each throat is teemed, then oot ontae the foggsFor four and twenty hoors completes the dosin’ o’ the hoggs.

In our “Daft Laddies” book, on this blog Don Clegg and I report the story about “Braxy Mutton” in which our great friend, the late Willie Robson gives details of the performance when he shepherded ootbye at Willow Bog, to prepare a concoction of pig dung and fresh milk to dose the hoggs to prevent them dying of “Braxy”, a disease we now know is caused by the Clostridial group of bacteria.

In the late 1800s and early 1900s, the cause of the disease was a mystery, so anything was worth a try to kill whatever was in the sheep’s innards that caused such rapid death. Imagine the despair of a shepherd going out in a morning to find his best hoggets dead and blown up, because the nature of Clostridial diseases like Braxy is that it’s most commonly found in the better bigger hoggets that are doing well and it kills rapidly with large amounts of gas produced in the intestines. The runts in the flock never seem to be affected in the same way.

Goodness knows who ever came up with the idea of a pig-dung brew as a preventative – but anything would be worth a try.

So here’s it’s story which was both recited and sung at many a Shepherd’s supper in Northumberland and is still a well-loved party piece.

There seems to be no record of an author, so I’d be interested in any information about such this perceptive knowledgeable person who clearly understood the problem, the way to make the brew as well as local scepticism.(Spiered – sought opinion)

Some magnificent Blackface ewe lambs/hoggs from Sundaysight at Bellingham mart in 2003. It was sheep like these that lived with the threat of Braxy before modern vaccines.(Photo copyright of Helen Brown)

Acknowledgement: To Helen Brown for permission to use her material. She can be contacted at Burnbank Cottage, Tarset, Hexham, Northumberland, NE 48 1LY. Phone 240-427

Poems and songsBellingham Show was such an important annual event, not only up the North Tyne valley but and on both sides of the Border, and especially in industrial Tyneside where 'toon folk' could have a day out by train in the fresh air of rural Northumberland.

It wasn't surprising then that local bards got busy telling tales about the various predicaments of folk who went to the show. The most famous was Billy Bell. Research by Susanne Ellingham of The Old Goal Border Library in Hexham shows that he was born at Riccarton in 1862. His mother was Scottish and may have gone home for her first birth because William says that in a later census. that he was born at Riccarton but brought up in Byrness and went to school in Rochester.

He worked as a roadman for the upper Redesdale Road Board and then the County Council from about 1883 to 1933. He died in 1941. All the three versions of the story of Bellinham show are by Billy. Over his lifetime, he wrote more than 350 poems in lined exercise books. When his widow died these notebooks were rescued by a neighbour Mrs S. Rogerson.

Susan says the Old Gaol has the typewritten copies made in 1968. His original exercise books were loaned at that time to Bill Butler of the Northumberland Tourist office, by a Mrs S Rogerson and returned to her. Bill Butler gave the typed copies to the Border library in the 1980s and these are what I are currently being digitised.

The late Will Elliott of Greystead, Tarset, gave me this first version of “Bellingham Show” which he recited, and it's sung to a very traditional tune used for many folks songs.

The first Bellingham Show was held in 1842, and the Show can boast the longest continuous Northumbrian Piping competition in the world!

BELLINGHAM SHOW - Version 1Aa am an aad heord and aa live far oot byeAa seldom see owt but the sheep and the kyeSo Aa says tu wor Betsy Aa think Aa will goTe hev a bit leuk at Bellingham Show.

So Aa went tu the Bobby an telt him me taleBut he saaid Aa waas nowt but a silly aad feul,Tis time ye knew better as aad men shud knowNot tu meddle wi lasses at Bellingham Show.

Aa got see excited ‘n lood aa did yellThat thi Bobby teuk me right off tu the cell,Throo the door he did send me wi’ the tip o’ his toeSaying “Keep yoursell quiet at Bellingham Show”.

BELLINGHAM SHOW - Version 2

An old shepherd's adventure at Bellingham Show 15th September 1905A thick veil of mist, the Tyne valley did fillAs I crested the top of the high Hareshaw hill,Aa’ heard musical strains in the vale far belowAs onward Aa headed for Bellingham Show.

As up through the town me owld bike Aa did driveThe crowd was as thick as brown bees round a hive,The rich and the poor, the high, great and lowAll had come for enjoyment at Bellingham Show.

They were there from the banks of the Tyne and the RedeThe Coquet and Wansbeck and clear silvery Tweed,All jumpin with glee, full of dash, fun and goMekkin’ haste to be in at Bellingham Show.

There were horses and cattle, bull stirks, calves and cowsThere was old tups and gimmers, young dinmonts and yowes,They were there from the uplands and lands lyin’ low.The flower of the Cheviots at Bellingham Show.

There were dogs of all classes, both red and white cakesThere were cats, cocks and hens, chickens, white ducks and drakes,There were pigs in salt butter, but salted alsoDressed sticks and hen eggs at Bellingham Show

The farmers looked happy, the wools had a riseThe lambs have selled weel, the yowes hev likewise,Their bright smiling faces as they wandered to and froBespoke of contentment at Bellingham Show.

Brave Robson and go forth at dawn the next mornJust after the smile of the sweet sun is born,Man the cry of his hounds and his loud tallyhoNear eclipsed all the joys of Bellingham Show.

BELLINGHAM SHOW - Version 3This is an interesting version, given to me by Tom Aynsley, a Northumbrian who used to farm in North Northumberland and now lives at Synton Parkhead, Ashkirk, Selkirk.

An a'd maid's adventure at Bellingham Show in search of a husband. c 1906Am an old maid and my name is Mary AnneAnd long have I been on the look oot for a manAnd I've oft heard it said if you wanted a beauThe best place tae gan was Bellingham Show

So a week past Thursday, I went to the toonAnd bought a new bonnet and a fine flash up goonOf the very latest fashion begox it was stunningJust like the gentry all wear up in Lunnin

The show morning arrived I got up with the larkAnd fixed up my new dress right up to the markIt had tean me two hoors when I came to my bonnetAnd I'd sung oor a hundred love laden sonnets.

As proud as a peacock I looked in the glassSays aye I'm no such a bad looking lassAnd I certainly feel sure that there's many a manWould like to be mated to thee Mary Anne

To cut a long story short I got to the showAnd there I began my quest for a beauI thought it was best at the entrance to waitTo see all the men as they came through the gate

At the exhibits to look at I felt not inclinedSomething far more important was searching my mindWhat a plague did I care for a game cock or henMy only great interest was in watching the men

I watched and I waited till the toon clock struck threeSays I Mary Anne this winnae deeBut just as my hopes were beginning to sinkA chap came along and guid me a wink

He didn't look taking as my eyes did him scanSays I they's no beauty but still they's me manSo I shoved my arm through his in the old fashioned wayAnd over the showground we happily did stray

He was dressed up quite smart in a loud checked coatAnd wore a beard neath his chin like and old billy goatI little wee mannie with his legs very sma'But his feet were the biggest that ever I saw

Now hinnie he says will ye gan into the tentJust to hae a wee toothful and I gave my consentWith his arm round me waist, he stole a bit kissThe first time I had ever tasted such bliss

How hinnie he says what hast to be thineWill you have a small glass of lemon or a drop of sherry wineI was kind of excited and maybe it was riskyBut I said I would just have a small glass of whiskeyOf course I made faces like what a woman should doThen they quick sup it over with a smack of the lipsOh we women folk we're gay fond of our nips.

An hour slipped away for time will not waitAn just as we were gan oot at the entrance gateSuddenly me lover turned awe queer and whiteJust like a chap who had gotten a fright

I looked around about us and there I saw cominTaken two steps at once a big old fat womanShe flew at me lover and with a squeal and a yelpAnd brought on his poor head her big umbrella.

For a second attack the poor chap didn't waitBut shot like an arrow oot through the show gateAnd ower the brig he did quick take his courseWith the fire and mettle of a runaway horse.

To me the old wife turned her attentionAnd said sweary words that I here must not mentionBut to sum up her story as short as I canShe said that I'd been trying to get off with her man.

I was fairly dumbfounded, what else could I beI telled the old wife she was telling a leeHer eyes shone with hate, her monkey aroseBefore I knew what had happened she had twisted me nose.

At the very first meeting away went my bonnetAnd then the old wife put her great feet upon itAnd next at me hair, she made a great riveLord save me I thought she will skelp me alive.

Says I Mary Anne but this winnae deeIf thou doesn't do better all will be upSays I it's gai funny if I cannot summonA likely plan to punish this woman.

At last the great secret I solved in my mindThough as strong as Diana she was short in the windSo I dodged round about her till I had her well blownI hadn't nae doubt the day was my own.

To work I now got, the folks crying gan on same yinGan on Mary AnneAs I planted in her great full moon faceA punch just like the great Johnny Mace.

In the hue of my victory I heard a great crackAs something gave way in the sma' of my backThey new fangled thing with the rose cheeked nameTo call them owt else I would fairly think shame.

And doon roond my ankles they caem in dure courseI was fairly well shackled like a Boswells fair horseAs I kicked and struggled it was all of nae useThey would not tear off and wouldnae come loose.

The boys gave three cheers and begox they were ringersAnd all the young lassies looked through their fingersWhen up came two Bobbies and disturbance to quellAnd said we were both tae gan to the cell.

Says I cannie chaps it's alright for thee to talkBut how the mischief do you think I'm going to walkThe sergeant turned round and spoke to his marraWho quickly went off and came back with a barrow.

I was placed in the front with my legs over the wheelsWhile the old wife at the back quickly did reel.

There was such a procession as never was seenYou would have thought I was a duchess or even a queenThere were motors and carriages and footfolk who ranCrying there's the old wife who's gone daft for a man.

At last we arrived at the sergeant's old houseAn angel of mercy the sergeant's dear wifeWho cut off me hopples with a big carving knifeAnd what do you know, preserve us and bless usThe young Bobbie said Mary Anne will kiss usI couldn't says no as my case was so urgentI gave one to the young chap and two to the sergeant.

The let us both oot in time for the trainTwas at the station I saw my old sweetheart againLooking gay scared and white o' the mugAs his old missus led him along by the lug.

Now all you young maidensWhat ere you decreeI hope you'll take warning by what befell meI pray you bide single there'sNo shame avo than to seek forA husband at Bellingham Show.

Highlight of the farming year
The highlight of our year up the North Tyne, without doubt, was Bellingham Show held in the last week of August for well over 100 years. We Bellingham folks dated everything in our lives by the Show. Arguments over dates could always be settled by “huw lang it waas afore or eftor the Show”.

In farming, we especially dated critical events like finishing the hay or the harvest to Show day, when the nights started to cut in and the dews got heavy so you were really struggling to get anything to dry after that. If hay was still uncut after Bellingham Show – then you could bet your Rogerson’s shepherds’ boots that fettles would not be good.

The Show season
The North Tyne “show season” started with the Border Shepherd’s show at Falstone held about 20 August. Here shepherds put their best sheep before the judge, and if the sheep did well, owners would take them to Bellingham to hopefully “clean up” depending on the judge there. As in all showing, it was critical to know who the judge was.

So Falstone show was a taster for Bellingham Show, which was then followed by the later shows up the Rede at Rochester around the 1st September, and then up the Coquet at Alwinton at the end of September to complete the season.

Excitement builds
The air of excitement at Bellingham Show started to build for us village laddies about a week before the event, when we saw the first tents appear. Then the sheep and cattle pens and the horse jumps came out from under the grandstand. Then a few days before the Show – what excitement, “the hoppings” arrived; it was overwhelming for us yunguns in the 1950s and 1960s.
Show day arrived, and a main feature was the noise of steam trains shunting and whistling in the station as the “special” trains from Blyth, Ashington and Tyneside arrived to deliver their passengers on trips to the show.

Joining the throng of folk walking through the village, and heading along around the Catholic turn across the bridge to the show, we could hardly contain ourselves. We never made conversation with these foreigners from Newcastle and beyond, as they seemed full of gob and pushy. But the Bellingham pubs (the Railway, Black Bull, Rose & Crown and the Fox & Hounds) welcomed them at 11am opening time; many never got to the show but they had a great time!

Pay at the gate

At the showfield gate, our neighbour Tommy Davidson was there every year with his rose buttonhole to take the money, and once in, you just went daft wondering where to go first.

I was always duty bound to check the “industrial tent” to see what prizes Dad had won with his vegetables, and to see if Mother had won owt with her baking or crochet work. Then I went to have my mind blown by the dressed walking sticks from both sides of the Border. This put you off ever trying to even copy the work of these famous men like George Snaith or Ned Henderson.

Photo shows the Show Corporate Office waiting for the
patrons. Internet contactis (bellinghamshow.com)
The livestock
But soon, the livestock had to be checked to watch the judging at the top end of the field near the cemetery wall, where they were sorting out the sheep and cattle. This was a favourite spot – mainly to study the humans and their behaviour as much as the stock! My life-long interest in this subject started here I’m sure, as well as in the dog tent among the exhibitors of the “border terriers, fox honds, Bedlington terriers and whippets from all over the county and outside”.

It was from these early days that I realised that given time, owners start to look like their animals! The other place to gain more evidence of this was the goat tent!

Horses, Pipes & wrestling
By late morning the preliminary rounds of the horse jumping had started and also the wrestling. The Northumbrian pipes were ganin canny by then too, so you had this terrible dilemma of deciding which finals to watch.
It was aalll ower much. But it was easiest to give the piping a miss as after you’d heard “Sweet Hesleyside” and “The Rothbury Hills” played a hundred times, it was more than enough. However, if you stood in the right place you could watch Dessie Ward cowp all his opponents in the wrestling, and when the roar came from the crowd in the grandstand, you could rush over and catch Doreen Ray riding a clear round for Miss Mitford of Woodburn.

The grandstand waiting for the roar of the crowdIt has weathered the years well and could tell some great tales

Isaac Walton's
There was always a few commercial exhibitors selling their wares and Isaac Walton was very prominent. In their tent, could get measured for a tweed suit or jacked with a nice “single vent country cut” as the salesman (clad in tweed suit), would strongly recommend. I had one of these tweed suits for years.

The beer tent was always overflowing but we village laddies gave it a wide berth incase some friendly neighbour saw us! Anyway, it was so full of “full” raucous Geordies, on a constant trek to the primitive nettie made of corrugated iron, that it didn’t have much appeal.

The Show Dance
But weariness eventually set in as the sun started to fall, and it was time to get across the Tyne bridge back to the village and heme because there was “The Show Dance” to prepare for in the toon hall! You had to be firing on all cylinders for this event!

What a prospect–with the lasses in thor posh dresses trying not to sweat ower much as the North Tyne Melody makers and Billy Richardson the MC gave us little time between dances. We needed that time to get the lasses te sit on wor knees under the premise of a shortage of seats!

Time gentlemen please!
After 10pm “the lads” from the pubs arrived at the dance, with their caps on acute angles and bottles of beer in their raincoat inside pockets. They were oblivious to the sweltering heat of the hall. The lasses were quite safe as few of them could get across the floor to where they intended to arrive to request a dance! They were far more engaged in a cluster around the bottom door, picking arguments and the occasional fight with their mates.

Memories from Bill Charlton
Bellingham Show was always on the Saturday nearest the 20th of September, but because it clashed with Alston Show it was changed, as they brought Alston forward because of the weather pattern changes. Hence both would have been on the same day.

The grandstand used to be open with no roof and 'Speedings' put a canvas one on for the show each year. Then after a while, it was eventually covered with a permanent roof. Speedings were the tent people from Sunderland who used to do the job then.

A brass band from Ashington used to come by the train on the Wannie line to the Show and play all the way up to the show field, and settle on to the Bandstand which built each year for the band.

Hesleyside Estate used to supply all the timber for the show ring, the bandstand, the tent tables, etc. The hedge was always cut prior to the show by my father (Bob Charlton) and Johnny Lauderdale who also did the fencing required for the show.

December 19, 2008

Robert and his wife Angela moved into Redesmouth farm, near Bellingham around 1950. After Robert had done his military service he gained farm experience near Prendwick before taking over at Redesmouth farm, which his father Colonel Allen from Haydon Bridge owned and had rented out to Harry Alder and family for many years.

Robert didn’t have much time for poetry when farming at Redesmouth, which he and Angela did till their retirement when they moved into Bellingham to a new house built in the field belonging to the Church of England – hence the name “The Glebe”.

Both Robert and Angela gave much to the community and were greatly respected.

In retirement, Robert was able to concentrate on putting his poems on paper and producing voice tapes for sale. The book “Canny bit verse” is the printed version of these tapes. Robert won many prizes at the Morpeth Gathering, the proceedings of which were published in “Northumbriana”.

Robert’s poems are in what I’d describe as “polite Northumbrian”. Robert was adamant that this was the “true Northumbrian” which he had learned at the knee of the lady (who he was very proud of) and who looked after him as a bairn. Well clearly she worked for the family so talked her best Northumbrian, which I described it as “Big Hoose terk” rather than “Village taalk”. We once debated this in “Northumbriana” magazine (ISBN 0306-4809) I remember.

Robert’s Northumbrian was the sort of dialect we used when “terkin te the vicar” or some of the “how’de ye doo ladies” in the village. You had to speak slowly in sentences with vowels and with clear enunciation – and it was spoken with a steady lilting pace and not garbled.

Thinking back, it was the Northumbrian of the “older generation” in my day, many of whom had been “in service” (domestic and agricultural) and hence made sure their children (my generation) “terked properly”. I can still hear my mother’s and aunt’s reprimands – “Don’t say Aye, say Yes”!We had a totally different version among the village laddies. We never “terked” to anybody – we "aallways (never erlways) taalked".

Robert used to argue that this village "taalk” I referred to, had come from contamination by “Geordie” from Tyneside – which was always spoken in a fast merged garble, and you didn’t worry about sentences or grammar. Robert was probably right.

The classical Geordie test pieces were to be able to say and understand the meaning of - “Broonsaallroond”, “Hesanyonyaanyonya” or “Hoysahammerowerheorhinny”?I worked as a “Daft Laddie” for Robert and Angela in 1951 before going to Kirkley Hall Farm Institute and it was a year, which brings back many happy memories of them both (now deceased).

I am very grateful to Nigel Hall for permission to reprint Robert’s poems - he holds the copyright, and you can contact him at nandg@mac.com. You may also contact the Northumbrian Language Society as a source (www.northumbriana.org.uk/langsoc/) of more of these brilliant works, and for recordings.

The old Rede bridge

The old Rede bridge (photo taken around 1956)

Redesmouth farm had land on the north side of the River Rede nearly up to the old Rede Bridge which carried the road from Bellingham up on to the A 68, across the Wannie line at what was referred to as 'Benson's Crossing' after the gatekeeper who was there for many years.

The bridge would most likely to have been built to carry the road across the Rede at a suitable crossing point as this would have been an important 'drove road' to move stock from the Tune valley down the A68 to Stagshaw and Corbridge. An old stone signpost further up from the bridge carried a 'C' for Corbridge to back this up.

The bridge's solid structure was probably to stand many floods which the Rede would have been prone to before the Catcleugh reservoir was constructed.

The bridge would have been made obsolete by the new viaduct bridge built lower down the river near Redesmouth village to carry the combined road and railway. This was completed in 1861 so the old bridge must have been built many years before that.

The old road soon grew over with grass and was always called 'the old green road'. It was always popular with walkers and car-bound courting couples who wanted to hide off the main road.

The hazard was getting stuck when it was wet. The old bridge was a popular Sunday walk and picnic spot for us Bellingham kids, as the river was shallow for safe 'plodging' and there were fresh-water oysters to be found just under the shaded arches.

A 'townie' once turned up at Redesmouth farm when I was Daft Laddie there, to report to Robert that he'd got stuck on the old green road and could someone help him. Robert asked me to take the David Brown tractor and give the bloke a tow out. Sounded a great idea to me as I could 'open up' the Davy in top gear along the main road, then down the green road to where the car had just slipped off the track heading down to the bridge. I soon had him out and returned to the farm with a pound note - which Robbie, the decent bloke that he was, insisted that I keep.

It aall began wi’ young Mary. At the time she was ganin wi a lad caalled Joe wee was a joiner be trade. He an Mary wes aall fixed up ti git wed an she’d named the day, an ivridbody wes leukin forrit tid. But Joe wes sair worrit, Ah can tell ye.
Seeminly Mary’d hed had a visit frae this Angel fella an’ noo she was carryin a bairn. Leastways that wes hor story, and neeebody cud talk hor oot on’t.

If ownly she’d teld is the truth thowt Joe, ah cud forgiv hor. He wes loosin a canny bit sleep ower the shame ont. Yin neet howsomevvor he did git away te sleep an started te dream. An in his dream anithor Angel cums doon tiv him and sez, “Divn’t be see daft Joe man – ye git yorsel marrit on Mary. She’s a canny lass an’ deun nowt rang. Aye, thor’s a bairn cumin allreet, bit it’s not the way ye think. This is ganin te be God’s bairn, and the greet King an’ Messiah, that aall the prophets, Essiah an’ them wes crackin aboot i’ the days gone by.

Noo jist aboot this time the govornment maede an order for a coont o’ heeds – whaat they caal a census, the same like we hev nowadays whiles. Aall folks hev te gan back tiv where they wor born an’ browt up te be counted, an’ hev thor names put iv a big beuk, so the government knaas huw many folk thor’s aboot. So Joe had te gan tiv a little oot-bye place caalled Bellingham an he had te tek Mary wiv him.

Nuw it waas a canny waalk frae Morpeth an Mary wes gay close tiv hor time. So Joe yokes the powney for hor, an they just took it nice and stiddy. Thor wes nee busees in them days and ye cudn’t beuk aheed. So when Joe an’ Mary lands theor efter dark, the pubs wor aall full up and they cudn’t git nee place ti sleep for luv nor muney. So they set off doon the lonnen an oot o’ the village a mile or see til they cums across a broken doon hemmel.

“Howway, Joe” says Mary. “Let’s gan in heor. The pains is cumin on summit aaful noo.” Ye see she’d gittin a fair jogglin aboot on the powney cumin ower Billsmoor an Hareshaw. So Joe lifts hor doon an’ they aall gan inside the hemmel. Joe lit his lantorn so they cud see bettor, and theor was neebody theor but an owld doon-calving cuw chowin hor cud. Aye she’d be company for the powney Joe thowt.

Byres & hemmels (D Clegg)

An’ Mary laid horsel doon on the straa and the bairn startin te cum. Thor wes nee midwife to help Joe so he’d hev te cut and tie the cord hesel seeminly. It wes the forst time Joe hed dun owt like this, but God must hev guided his hand and gein him the skills. He waasn’t ganin tiv hev His greet plan for the world botched up reet frae the start be sum cuddy-handeed donnort!

An when it wes aall ower, Joe rove the linin oot uv his top-coat an wrapped it roond the bit bairn an laid him doon in the cattle trow like it wes a cradle. An away i’ the corner the aad cuw wes sharin hor bit hay wi the powney. An then they both cam ower ti the trow ti snuff at the bairn. Then the cuw gi’ him a bit lick abacka the lugs wi’ hor greet raspy tung like she alwes did wi hor ahn calves.

At the saem time, oot on the fell thor waas twa-three shephord laddies lukin thor yowes. It was a bit late mind ye but thor’d bin a bit bothor wi’ a fox aboot. They’d just lowsed an’ wor tekin thor pipes i the dyke back when aall of a sudden – aye yiv guessed it – anithor o’ them greet shiny Angels lit doon afrunt o’ them. Man they reckoned yon wes the clivvorist yeor for seein Angel, and although thor was a lot of them aboot, the heord laddies had nivor seen ony afore.

Then the Angel gi’s his showdors a bit hike. “Aye weel” he ses, they’ve got te be strang for wor job. And then he gans aall serious like an ses – “Onnyways, Ah’ve got mair important things te taalk aboot than me wings.” “Ah’ve been sent ti tell ye that God’s kept his word, what he telt the add prophets, that the new King, the Messiah hes just gittin born i’ that aad hemmel doon the end o’ the lonnen yonder.

An when they’d deun, thor waas deed hush, an the leet went oot just like a poower cut. An as seun as they cud heor thorsels think, yin o’ the shephord laddies ses - “Hey mebe it’s reet what the aad Angel sed, cos thor waddent hev put on a consort like that for nowt. Howay, we’ll gan away doonbye an’ hev a bit leuk.” So away they went tappy-lappy doon the lonnen.

Nuw when they cum doon inte the slack, they cud see a leet in the hemmel, so they crept up and had a bit keek thru the winda. An theor waas the little bairn, lyin asleep i’ the trow. An they gans roond ti the big door for a bit bettor leuk, an theor waas Joe and Mary, an the aad cuw and powney i’ the corner. Man they’d nivor seen out like it afore.

But reet away they knew it waas God’s bairn alrite, cos they cud see the little ring o’ lite roond his heed that’s caalled a halo, like Rubens and them paintor blokes made oot i’ thor pictors.

An they doffed thor caps and knelt doon i’ wondor an’ respect. An the little shephord laddie teuk the sheepskin off his showdors an lade it ower the bairn cos thor was some gay snell drafts whistling roond the add hemmel.

Then efor a while, they gans away heme ti thor breakfasts an they telt aall the folks what a neet it had been. Thor was sum that half believed them, but a canny few thowt they’d mebes had a sup ower much beor. It’s var nigh the same thing the day when ye try te tell folk the same owld story.

Published in Northumbriana 1977ISBN 0308-4809

Robert Allen's farming and historical poems have been sourced from the Northumberland Language Society. Please contact the NLS as a source (www.northumbriana.org.uk/langsoc/) of more of these brilliant works, and for recordings. The copyright is held by Nigel and Georgina Hall - for enquiries email them on nandg@mac.com.

“It’ll not be for want o’ the askin’, mind,She’ll manage it onnyone can:Oh aye,- Ah’ve seen tehm theor up the Lynn,-Hor an’ hor fancy man!”

An the gossip rowled on like a rivor i’ spate, -So Ah quietly clos’d the door,As Ah left for the pub aboot half way thro’,“Cos Ah’d heored it erl afore!

From “Canny Bit Verse”, 1994. ISBN 0-9524649-0-XPublished by the author.Robert Allen's farming and historical poems have been sourced from the Northumberland Language Society. Please contact the NLS as a source (www.northumbriana.org.uk/langsoc/) of more of these brilliant works, and for recordings. The copyright is held by Nigel and Georgina Hall - for enquiries email them on nandg@mac.com.

From “Canny Bit of Verse”, 1994. ISBN 0-9524649-0-XPublished by the author.Robert Allen's farming and historical poems have been sourced from the Northumberland Language Society. Please contact the NLS as a source (www.northumbriana.org.uk/langsoc/) of more of these brilliant works, and for recordings. The copyright is held by Nigel and Georgina Hall - for enquiries email them on nandg@mac.com.

From “Canny Bit Verse”, 1994. ISBN 0-9524649-0-XPublished by the author.
Robert Allen's farming and historical poems have been sourced from the Northumberland Language Society. Please contact the NLS as a source (www.northumbriana.org.uk/langsoc/) of more of these brilliant works, and for recordings. The copyright is held by Nigel and Georgina Hall - for enquiries email them on nandg@mac.com.

From “Canny Bit Verse”, 1994. ISBN 0-9524649-0-XPublished by the author.Robert Allen's farming and historical poems have been sourced from the Northumberland Language Society. Please contact the NLS as a source (www.northumbriana.org.uk/langsoc/) of more of these brilliant works, and for recordings. The copyright is held by Nigel and Georgina Hall - for enquiries email them on nandg@mac.com.

The "Spuggie" is the Geordie and Northumbrian name for the "House Sparrow" (Passer domesticus). Its name is part of the famous Geordie tongue twister -"Thors a spuggie stuck in the sckeul spoot). They were a mightly pest on farms descending on standing and laid corn crops, and devouring newly sown grass seed. But Robert liked them in the end!

From “Canny Bit of Verse”, 1994. ISBN 0-9524649-0-XPublished by the author.Robert Allen's farming and historical poems have been sourced from the Northumberland Language Society. Please contact the NLS as a source (www.northumbriana.org.uk/langsoc/) of more of these brilliant works, and for recordings. The copyright is held by Nigel and Georgina Hall - for enquiries email them on nandg@mac.com.

An’ what hopes hev they noo but a few weory yeorsAfore th’ore cerl’d away,When a grim quiet heorse an’ a mind full o’ teorsWill speak for them yin day?

From “Canny Bit of Verse”, 1994. ISBN 0-9524649-0-XPublished by the author.Robert Allen's farming and historical poems have been sourced from the Northumberland Language Society. Please contact the NLS as a source (www.northumbriana.org.uk/langsoc/) of more of these brilliant works, and for recordings. The copyright is held by Nigel and Georgina Hall - for enquiries email them on nandg@mac.com.

Owld Moss is clivvor at yon lark, an’ works away amain,Just showin’ eye she’ll sharp fetch yowes back ti thor lambs again.Whey,- just the day we fund a yowe, - an awkward lookin’ bitch,-He’d wandor’d off an’ left hor lambs cowpt in a muckle ditch.

So while Moss gat hor roonded up, Ah lifted oot the paor,But she wessent just like takin’ them, an’ didn’t seem ti caor:We set away ti drive hor then the half mile ower the fell,An’ for the neet Ah hev the three noo barr’d up I’ the stell.

From “Canny Bit of Verse”, 1994. ISBN 0-9524649-0-XPublished by the author.Robert Allen's farming and historical poems have been sourced from the Northumberland Language Society. Please contact the NLS as a source (www.northumbriana.org.uk/langsoc/) of more of these brilliant works, and for recordings. The copyright is held by Nigel and Georgina Hall - for enquiries email them on nandg@mac.com.

Published by the author. Robert Allen's farming and historical poems have been sourced from the Northumberland Language Society. Please contact the NLS as a source (www.northumbriana.org.uk/langsoc/) of more of these brilliant works, and for recordings. The copyright is held by Nigel and Georgina Hall - for enquiries email them on nandg@mac.com.

The doctor diagnoses it a new type Asian ‘flu,-Wes browt heor i; the baggage of an immigrant Hindu;If Ah find oot whee giv us it, Ah’ll fetch him sic a cloot,Thore’s little comfort knowin’ thore’s a lot of it aboot!

From “Canny Bit of Verse”, 1994. ISBN 0-9524649-0-XPublished by the author.Robert Allen's farming and historical poems have been sourced from the Northumberland Language Society. Please contact the NLS as a source (www.northumbriana.org.uk/langsoc/) of more of these brilliant works, and for recordings. The copyright is held by Nigel and Georgina Hall - for enquiries email them on nandg@mac.com.

From “Canny Bit of Verse”, 1994. ISBN 0-9524649-0-XPublished by the author.Robert Allen's farming and historical poems have been sourced from the Northumberland Language Society. Please contact the NLS as a source (www.northumbriana.org.uk/langsoc/) of more of these brilliant works, and for recordings. The copyright is held by Nigel and Georgina Hall - for enquiries email them on nandg@mac.com.

But if ye plan te settle heor,Ye’ll hatta leorn the rules’We divvent like the cocky yins,An’ canna bide the fools.

For if amang us canny folksYe wish it be elect,Nee hang for reputation, yeMust eaorn your ahn respect.

An’ when ye’ve bin heor fifty yeor,An’ nivvor made a fuss, -Then – mebbies – we’ll be kind te yeAnd cerl ye – ‘Yin of us!From “Canny Bit Verse”, 1994. ISBN 0-9524649-0-XPublished by the author.Robert Allen's farming and historical poems have been sourced from the Northumberland Language Society. Please contact the NLS as a source (http://www.northumbriana.org.uk/langsoc/) of more of these brilliant works, and for recordings. The copyright is held by Nigel and Georgina Hall - for enquiries email them on nandg@mac.com.

December 6, 2008

I was lucky enough to be given my first decent stick with a horn handle at age 13 by a noted Border Shepherd, Michael Anderson (see picture at left, courtesy of Bellingham Heritage Centre collection painted by Miss Kingston-Walker), when I plucked up enough courage to ask him how to bend a sheep’s horn. He was generous with his knowledge and honoured me with a stick. It was a memorable visit to his workshop with few tools but much wisdom.

But a shepherd’s stick is more than a tool of trade. When a Border Shepherd got up from his chair leaving the warmth of the fireside to go outside, he did two things. He first reached for his cap, and then he took his stick from the rack in the ceiling beams above the fireplace. A good shepherd not only “gaveth his life for his sheep”, he nivor left his stick (or his cap) lyin aboot either!

Choice of stickWhich stick he chose depended on the mission. At lambing time he’d choose the long wide-necked horn-headed stick which could be hooked around a departing ewe’s neck to bring her to an abrupt stop. Fixing of the head to the shank of this stick was critical, as you could be left with a shank in your hand, a departing ewe with a horn necklace and some biblical quotations from your mouth.

If a shepherd was off to “look the hill” or “caa the sheep oot”, he’d take a much shorter and lighter plane-headed stick. The correct length for this stick stretched from your left should joint to the outstretched finger of your right hand. This length was grand for walking on the hill among rough tussock “bull snoots” and a help for crossing drains. This stick could get a fair bit of wear ands tear over time, and I’ve seen many with new shanks spliced on with black insulating tape. It was never wise to ask “whaat brok yor stick”?

If you were off to the local market or the village to see the bank manager, then you’d choose your “mart stick” which was a bit more fancy than your daily herding stick. It would certainly have some decoration on the handle and perhaps your name and the farm name, but certainly not a trout or a cock pheasant’s head. These real fancy sticks were only for show.

Stick to attend the local showThe other important spot to show off your good stick was at the local Show where you knew that all your fellow shepherds would be there, just quietly skiting about their sticks without saying a word.

Picture of Michael Anderson (left) with pipe and stick taken from film of Bellingham show, probably around the 1950s

Stick for churchThere was one other very special place where you could do some stick skiting; it was at church. Here you’d take a smallish top quality bit of art and craft, as you knew it would be seen during sermons when minds tended to wander. At the end of the pew was a brass handle that held sticks and umbrellas and stood in a drip-tray at the base. Here also was the place to see the lovely light and decorative ladies’ sticks.

Stick as a presentation awardOften a stick is given as a prize at a Sheep Show (like the one I made below) or for a winner at a dog trial. (Any stick used in a NZ Dog Trial can be no longer than 1 metre).

The trophy for the Supreme Chamption Wool Breeds' Ewe

Presented at the NZ Waikato Show by David and Jean Welch, OMATA Perendale stud 2009

There was just one other place that a shepherd needed a stick for – to lay on the top of his coffin.

Historical uses for a shepherd's stick

To help walking over rough ground and among rocks, especially when coming down hill.

As a weapon to ward off predators of the flock.

As company - to give a feeling of security when out on your own.

As a status symbol - the shepherd always had high status among farm workers.

To catch sheep by the neck or the back leg.

To move awkward animals such as old rams which may turn on you if provoked.

To extend your arm to direct a dog when it was working a long way off.

About The Editor

Dr Clive Dalton studied agriculture in UK before teaching animal production at Leeds University. He came to New Zealand to do hill country animal research and then extension/promotion at the Ruakura Research Centre.

Before retirement he taught agriculture at the Waikato Polytechnic. He was awarded the Landcorp Communicator of the Year Award, the Sir Arthur Ward Award for Agricultural Communication, and is an Honorary Life Member of the NZ Guild of Agricultural Journalists & Communicators.

He is currently an agricultural journalist and technical editor for the website www.lifestyleblock.co.nz, and can be contacted on clive.dalton@gmail.com

Disclaimer

The material in this blog and its associated knols is provided in good faith for information purposes only, and the author does not accept any liability to any person for actions taken as a result of the information or advice (or the use of such information or advice) provided in these pages.